Mourning Into Dancing

Grief is a greedy thief  — just when life has never seemed more fleeting and precious and filled with beauty, it can be so difficult to enjoy.

Painful "lasts"—last conversation, last time behind the wheel, last game of five hundred, last bowls of popcorn, last Sunday in worship —collide too quickly with breath-taking "firsts." First solitary meal, first trip home expecting to hear a silenced voice, first visit to the cemetery in town, staring down at a grave covered with black dirt so dry the grass seed refuses to sprout.

Though against the cemetery's rules, it's tempting to bring a wheelbarrow filled with tulip bulbs and plant them in raw earth watered by tears, hoping that by the time they bloom with a flourish in the spring, grief will have loosened its too-tight grip.

A favorite psalm speaks of both joy and sadness, mourning and dancing (Psalm 30:11-12):

You have turned my mourning into dancing;
you have taken off my sackcloth and clothed me with joy,
so that my soul may praise you and not be silent.
O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you for ever.

Life is messy. Laughter comes in the midst of tears, joy creeps in while I'm still dressed in funeral clothes. The reverse is also true, of course. A hopeful new day can dissolve into despair. Laughter can trigger tears. In the midst of life — precious, fleeting, and beautiful interwoven with love, sadness, joy and loss... O Lord my God, I will give thanks to you for ever. 

Love Blooms

This summer, much of life felt un-bloggable during my father’s illness and recent death. However, one reality of church life is that monthly newsletter deadlines keep coming whether one feels like writing or not. So... here is a version of something I wrote for our September newsletter:

Over the years and in recent weeks my parents had talked at length about end of life issues – what they wanted and what they didn’t concerning medical care, financial matters, funeral and burial arrangements, the farm. As he was able in the last few weeks, my dad made things as easy as possible for Mom and the rest of us, making sure we knew where to find important papers and phone numbers, pointing out things that needed to be done on the farm and making sure we knew how much he loved his life and each one of us. 

Although my father had not wanted a visitation, he reluctantly agreed to my mother’s request, negotiating a spot in the sunny narthex addition he had helped to imagine and build one summer years ago. A beautiful arrangement of sunflowers, red Gerber daisies, ears of corn and pieces of denim graced the simple closed casket. 

My mom had delegated the task of finding the altar flowers to a cousin, but when the vases arrived for the evening visitation, they were missing the cheerful sunflowers my mom had specifically requested. As I stood in the aisle of the still-empty sanctuary looking at the altar and its not-quite-right flowers, I contemplated where I could possibly track down some yellow blooms much later that evening—not an easy task in that rural community. Just as I had decided to troll through the gardens of neighboring farms with a flashlight, the funeral director approached and asked, “What do you need?” 

It was a pretty big question on the eve of my father’s funeral – the list of what my broken heart longed for at that moment was a long one.“I need a dozen sunflowers,” I told the kind young man, holding up my hands about six inches apart. “This big,” I said. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he said as a humbling wave of family, friends, old classmates of mine and students of my mother, farmers, business people, neighbors and church folks began flowing into the parking lot and through the building. An hour into the visitation, I glanced at the altar to see that sunflowers had been carefully added to each vase. Daisies too. That act of kindness buoyed me through the long evening. Those flowers greeted me again the next day as we celebrated the extraordinary life, deep faith and generous love of a simple farmer, husband, father and grandfather.

On the eve of his death, Jesus told his disciples, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.” Well, actually, John’s Gospel puts it this way: “Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many rooms. If it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, so that where I am, there you may be also.” 

For the many ways, big and small, that God speaks to our troubled hearts, our fears, our grief, our hopes, our doubts—I am amazed and so grateful. For the preparations and promises that Christ has made for my dad, for you, for me—I rejoice. For the gift of this life and the opportunities we are all given to minister to one another in joy and in sorrow—I say “yes.”

Trust God and always be healthy.

After worship and extra meetings today, I recruited two kids, brother and sister, to help me retrieve some items from the sanctuary. We raced through the hall then slow motion down the aisle to get the toaster I had used for a children's sermon. I know, I know - we probably shouldn't run in church - especially in heels and with a toaster because it can be difficult to keep up. Then we went outside to search for the baby hawk that fell out of a tree earlier in the week. We didn't find it but we chatted as we looked, wondering what was for lunch and talking about afternoon plans.

I once worked at a church where the parents of the current Sunday School children had a fear of the senior pastor that had begun in confirmation and .... lingered. Maybe that kind of relationship with a pastor has its place, though I don't see the point in cultivating a withering glance as a tool for ministry. (It never even worked on my own children once they learned not to make eye contact.) In the congregation I serve, I'm so grateful for life-giving relationships at every age.

When I asked the seven year-old if he was still interested in being my worship assistant sometime this summer, he and his six year-old sister quickly hatched an elaborate, marvelous plan: We should meet every Friday to practice church. They would take turns being the pastor and doing the other parts of the service. Having both boy pastors and girl pastors seemed important to them. I would play the piano. Instead of having the kids come up for a children's sermon, adults would be invited to sit on the steps and whoever is the pastor that day would talk to them about life. "What about communion?" their dad chimed in. Oh, yes, the fledgling pastor lit up with excitement and an idea - they would hand out goldfish crackers with the words "Trust God and always be healthy." They weren't picky about the wardrobe when their mom inquired - both albs or regular clothes were acceptable. But they thought we would definitely need a bulletin for what they called "fake church."

It was a lively conversation that tickled my imagination. It makes me wonder - not just about what children hear and take home from our corporate worship, but what others hear and remember as well. I'm going to have to give this "fake church" a try and see what happens.

Other Duties as Assigned

This week, a young hawk fell out of one of the large fir trees at church. Still white and fluffy, he's uninjured but not yet ready to fly. His mother is nearby - agitated, protective and loud as she swoops in to scare off those who venture too close.

"Put him back up in the tree," recommended the local raptor experts, "and his mother will take care of the rest."

This was easier said than done -- but with a ladder, a box, some long potholders snagged from the church kitchen, a helpful church secretary and some screeching on the part of both myself and the baby bird, we were able to get the tyke into the lowest branches of the tree. The next day and the next, despite blistering heat and a blustery thunderstorm, there he sat in the same spot while his helpless mother fretted nearby. Today, however, he's under a bush with a dead mouse - I can't decide if this is good or bad. His mother has ramped up her warnings, screeching and swooping to keep lookie loos and mouse stealers at bay.

Never a dull day around here. Ministry is like this more days than I'd care to admit - making use of the tools and people God puts in front of us, calling for help as needed, mustering courage for the things that are challenging, creating safe space for others to grow into their wings and fly, praying for the best without always knowing what the best outcome might be.

Having a snack handy and someone to watch your back can't hurt.

Stupid Cancer

I wrote this a couple of weeks ago mid-way through a long solo road trip, stalling because I suspected there was bad news waiting on the other end:

Forsaking my to-do list, I'm driving down to Iowa today. I got up and ready to leave an hour before I intended not realizing soon enough to go back to bed. With forty miles to go, I've made a pitstop at McDonald's for caffeine and now hesitate to get back in the car. I'm in the kind of hurry that a medical emergency demands which means that I both want to get there quickly and ... I don't want to go at all.

The distance and my out-of-sync-with-most job make this trek to the family farm and my farm family more rare than I would like and than I've promised myself. Over the years I've missed graduations and birthdays, hospitalizations and funerals, and far too many of the bowls of popcorn and slices of red velvet cake that taste like home. Whatever waits, I am grateful to be on my way toward home and the people that make it so.

With no choice but to continue onward, I regressed a year with each remaining mile. By the time I arrived, I felt very much like a frightened five year-old, wanting to close my eyes and stuff my fingers into my ears. Maybe this is the only way to bear unbearable news about a loved one - though I don't envy the doctors whose explanations fall on my stopped-up ears.

Here's what the 5 year-old me has to say: "Stupid cancer."

Here's what the 46 year-old me has to say: "Stupid cancer."

To be continued...

Divine Farewell

A block or so from our house, an old hospital is being dismantled. Built fifty years ago, Divine Redeemer Memorial Hospital had been the jewel of this small, suburban community. Forward-thinking, hard-working, determined residents pledged their own money to bring the hospital to a river town made prosperous by busy stockyards. The Sisters of the Divine Redeemer were persuaded to provide the administrative know-how.


Looking into a twisted cross-section of the half-demolished building - it's noisier than I expect. The cranes and backhoes sit quietly at the end of the day, but the building itself creaks and moans as if shifting from one foot to another — impatient for morning. It's easy to imagine the life and death those rooms once held—children born, diseases fought, bodies repaired, lives lost, meals served, floors mopped, careers launched, heroes made, tears shed, prayers lifted. 

There were brushes with fame—the hospital was one location for the filming of the movie “Grumpy Old Men” and several others. Years ago, local hockey legend, Herb Brooks, broke his arm playing semipro hockey at a local ice rink and eventually married the young nurse who cared for him at Divine Redeemer that night.

Most recently, the building served as a long-term care facility. My last visits were to a much-loved mother and grandmother surrounded by devoted family at the end of her life. While dying, the dear woman was wrapped in a quilt pieced together from a lifetime of memories. The staff was kind, respectful, even sad as they hovered near the last goodbyes.

Finally, our son's school project on a significant landmark in our neighborhood had us poking around the old hospital and local library asking questions, reading through old news articles, taking photographs and interviewing former patients and employees. After the care center was closed, the empty building was used to train specialized police units—mock hostages were rescued, search warrants executed, battering rams and equipment tested. Since then, silence.

Too expensive to renovate, the hospital is being leveled and the site scoured, readied for a future use that remains uncertain. I would love to hear any stories you have of what has been described as “a wonderful little hospital” and I wait with anticipation for what the future brings.

When former employees gathered for a farewell ceremony, one of the nuns spoke of the cherished relationships and sense of community the hospital fostered - important things that outlive the bricks and mortar. "It is just a building," she said, but it was certainly a building that breathed life into this community and leaves a sense of loss as it takes its final breaths. 

Chilling in the church basement

A unique feature of a funeral lunch at Salem is the ice. Two women who are often called upon to serve have strong opinions about half-empty bags of frosty ice clumps that taste unpleasantly like the freezer. When a luncheon is requested, these two volunteers spring into action - generating fresh, delicious "homemade" ice cubes to more tastefully chill the water and punch. One uses her refrigerator's ice maker, the other churns them out the old-fashioned way - using ice cube trays. To be fair, I am always careful to taste and admire each kind - I don't like frosty, stinky ice clumps either and am willing to do my part to keep the good ice coming.

I recently touted our superior ice to a family as they made plans for their mother's funeral and the lunch to follow. Yesterday, in the midst of the healing chatter and laughter that so often accompany the cold cuts and Special K bars, a mourner from the immediate family asked me to point out the two ice-makers. Since one woman was on vacation, the other was able to take all of the credit while he thanked her sincerely and profusely, telling her how delicious and refreshing he found her homemade cubes.

A few moments later, one of his sisters also offered compliments ("never better") and then another sibling ("so tasty") and another ("best I've ever had"). Seven or eight relatives later, everyone was giggling about the outstanding ice cubes, especially their maker. When the lunch was finally winding down, the flower arrangements and leftover potato salad were divvied up and all of the good ice was gone, I overheard one last daughter, so sad to lose her mom, ask for a few of those delicious ice cubes "to go." Even in the midst of their grief - these adult children could not squelch the laughter and playfulness they had inherited from their mother.

Our lunch crew's hospitality allows families to make themselves at home in our church basement - for an hour or an afternoon. Just once like yesterday or after fifty years of potlucks and annual meetings and Easter breakfasts -- during the best and most painful days life offers.

I am so very grateful to serve alongside them. And the ice cubes really were delicious - I'll have to ask for the recipe.